


Remember

by mmwhatchasayy



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: ?? i guess, Angst, Fluff, HTGAWM Spoilers, M/M, coliver - Freeform, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 12:41:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10741923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmwhatchasayy/pseuds/mmwhatchasayy
Summary: Looking through the box labeled CW that sits in his closet on the worst day of the year, Oliver can't help but to look back on the good times (and the bad). Because even though things came to a horrible end, his life with Connor was an amazing one.// Takes place 6 years after season 3, in 2023





	Remember

Oliver wakes up to two texts from Michaela, sent a few minutes apart.

_Do you want me to go with you?_

_Let me know if you need anything_.

He sighs, runs a hand down his face, and rolls back over. He's not ready for today, not yet.

His boss wouldn't be expecting him to come in today, anyway.

He would stumble in tomorrow morning to sympathetic expressions and offers of hugs or maybe a shared meal, the heavy bags under his glazed eyes the only giveaway that something was wrong as he faked a smile and turned them all down.

But, of course, they all knew.

Everyone knew the stories, the rumors. The end result.

Though no one knew the details, no one but him.

But the details were the absolute worst part. "Trust me," he'd sigh to whoever it was that built up the courage to ask such a horrible question that day, because there was always someone. "You really don't want to know."

Oliver wasn't sure how long he laid in that bed, trying to imagine everything was okay, that it had all been just a bad dream. It could've been mere minutes, or it could've been days and weeks on end.

Time just kind of blended together nowadays, slipped away from him whenever he wasn't paying close attention to the ticking hands of a clock.

Finally, though, Oliver managed to drag himself out of bed, squinting against the morning sun's harsh light and shuffling socked feet into the kitchen to begin a pot of coffee.

He shot a quick text to Michaela, more to let her know he was alive than to answer her question. They both knew what he would say before he bothered to type out his response, the same thing he always said.

 _I'm alright. Thanks_.

He wasn't alright, though, not really. He hadn't been for a long time.

Still, he forced himself to act like this was any normal day, any _other_ day.

Any day but December 14th.

He took a scalding shower that did nothing to soothe his aching muscles before pouring himself a mug of the rapidly cooling coffee and settling on the couch. He watched the news until his mug was empty, barely bothering to pay attention to what the reporters were saying. Quite honestly, he didn't care.

He sat there for a long time, silent and unmoving, staring blindly at the tv until he couldn't put it off anymore.

Finally, finally, finally, he pushes himself to his feet, trudges toward the sink and tosses his mug in.

It's quite possible that it's cracked, but he can't find it in himself to care.

Every movement, every step, is harder than the last.

There's something pulling him toward the box in the back of his closet, pulling him closer but pushing him away at the same time.

When he's finally managed to reach the closet, he practically falls to his knees, reaching forward with shaking hands. He's holding it in seconds, pulling it toward himself.

He wants nothing more than to rip it open and rifle through it, but at the same time he wishes he could run from it, run and try to forget all that it held.

But not today.

Maybe someday, he could push it to the back of a closet and forget, but not today.

Not December 14th.

Ever so slowly, he tugs off the lid of the box. It's little more than a shoebox, small enough that it doesn't look out of place in his closet (not that there would be anyone looking through it), but large enough to comfortably hold its collection - Oliver's most valuable possessions.

It's fitting that the first thing he pulls out of the box is a tie, long and skinny and deep blue. Connor had been wearing it the night they'd first met, after all.

He runs his thumb along the soft fabric, silky and clean and so utterly _him_ that it hurts deep in Oliver's bones, the dull ache he's grown used to becoming something so much stronger.

And, suddenly, he's there again, in that brightly-lit bar below his old office, standing a table away from the most gorgeous man he's ever seen in real life.

 _"Maker's Manhattan,"_ Connor smiles, handing over one of the long-stemmed glasses in his hands. _"Two cherries."_

He's so much younger. There's a sparkle in his eyes, playful and bright. The tiny crows feet that had begun to appear after a few years of working under Annalise are nowhere to be seen, and his short hair is without the speckling of gray Oliver had grown used to.

He squeezes his eyes closed, presses the tie to his cheek. Oliver holds on to the memory for dear life. He needs to remember it exactly, back when they were both so young and happy and excited for the future. Back when anything was possible.

 _"So, you know,"_ the man smirks mischievously, _"your coworkers seem to want a show. So just say the word, and we can start making out."_

Even now, Oliver smiles at the remembered words, his cheeks coloring just the slightest bit. He holds onto it just a bit longer, replaying it over and over again in his head until the words begin to sound all wrong.

He carefully folds the tie up and places it back in the box, the one with the _CW_ scribbled on the side.

 _Connor Walsh_.

Next, he pulls out the most horrendous woolen hat he's ever seen in his life. He runs his fingertips along the frayed edges, gently touches the bright yellow pom-pom that sits on top. And, again, just like clockwork, he's there.

 _"My grandma made it,"_ a smiling Connor explained as the hat's box was pulled open. He was older, now, with the light behind his eyes slightly duller. But it's still there, fighting to reach the light of day, to shine through those beautiful amber irises.

 _"So, this is a regift."_ It's not a question, just an observation. A little irritated, a little amused. Just like things with them often were back in those days.

 _"I couldn't pull it off,"_ he said quickly, jumping up to take the hat from its box and pull it over Oliver's eyes. _"But_ you _totally can."_

He couldn't keep the stupid smile off his face, seeing how Connor beamed when he fixed the hat on his head.

 _"Oh, yeah, look at that!"_ The man exclaimed, delighted as he bounced away.

The memory faded with him, and Oliver was left on the floor of the room they'd once shared, clutching a worn-out beanie close to his chest with tears in his eyes.

Maybe he should've invited Michaela over after all. This was much more difficult than he'd pictured it being, much worse than the last few times he'd carefully gone through the box.

But, no, he had to do this alone.

Besides, there was only one thing left - though it carried the most memories of all.

Oliver folded the hat up and put it in its rightful place beside the tie, taking a deep breath before removing the thick book, bound in red leather.

 _Connor & Oliver_, the front reads, in a beautiful scrawl Oliver recognizes better than his own handwriting.

Below the names is a picture of the two of them, taken somewhere on a vacation, somewhere away from all their problems in Philadelphia. They're looking at each other, smiling and laughing, the love in their eyes almost palpable.

The presence of the photographer isn't acknowledged by either man - to this day, Oliver has no idea where Connor found the picture.

He takes a long time to simply stare at the photo, memorize it best he can. He runs his fingers along their names at the top of the book, tracing Connor's writing, the promise of love and laughter and _forever_ clear just in the way the letters swirled together.

Eventually, he opens the book to the very first page. It holds nothing but a single pressed rose and a bright blue birthday candle, and yet the memory still rushes back vividly.

A few days before the flowers and the candles, the two had rented some romance movie to watch together, snuggled up in each other's arms. Connor ended up falling asleep halfway through, his head on Oliver's lap and Oliver's fingers tangled in his hair, bored out of his mind and exhausted from all the pressure put on him at work lately.

Before he'd drifted off, though, they'd admired the beautiful candlelit dinner scene together.

 _"Wouldn't that be so romantic?"_ Oliver had gushed, looking over to the other man with eyes much too excited.

Connor had chuckled, reached up and teasingly mussed Oliver's dark hair. _"Sorry, Ollie. You know as well as anyone that I can't cook to save my life."_

But, sure enough, two days later, Oliver had walked in through the door of apartment 303 to a full spread. Roses, salad, chicken, pasta, and . . .

 _"Are those birthday candles?"_ Oliver asked, barely containing his laughter.

 _"Hey!"_ Connor had scolded, though he was holding back an amused smile of his own. _"You wanted a candlelit dinner, and these were all you had. What did you expect?"_

He'd shaken his head in amazement, dropping his coat and bag to the floor as he stepped further into the apartment. _"I love you,"_ was all he could say, moving closer to tug Connor close, allowing the man to kiss the smile from his lips.

By the time they actually got around to eating, the food had long grown cold and the brightly-lit candles had burned all the way down.

Neither one really minded.

Oliver couldn't help his small smile as a tear dropped off his cheek and onto the page. He hadn't even realized he was crying until the salty drop splatted against the paper.

He used the sleeve of his sweater to carefully wipe it away before turning the page.

The next page held a collection of photos taken at their first real holiday together, spent with Connor's family, circling a crude sketch of a Christmas tree.

It was the first time Oliver had met Connor's family, and he'd enjoyed every second. Connor, on the other hand, had been absolutely miserable.

The family's over-the-top excitement upon Oliver's arrival only furthered his belief that he was Connor's very first boyfriend, despite the fact that the man was already over 25.

Connor's older sister, Gemma, had told Oliver countless stories of a little boy even more mischievous than the man he now knew, while said man chased a pair of giggling children around the snowy yard.

 _"I've never seen him happier than he is with you,"_ she'd admitted over her glass of wine, causing Oliver's ears to turn pink as he grinned. _"You're so good for him."_

Later that night, after most of the people had left and Connor's niece and nephew were sound asleep upstairs, Oliver had stumbled into the kitchen, more than a little bit tipsy.

 _"You grab hold of that boy, and you don't let go,"_ Mrs. Walsh was whispering loudly to her obviously uncomfortable son, her being even drunker than Oliver. _"He's a keeper, he is."_

Connor had just blushed profusely, grabbed Oliver's hand, and tugged him upstairs.

 _"Your family loves me,"_ Oliver had teased moments later, wrapping his arms around Connor's waist.

He'd laughed, turned in the man's arms to press a kiss to his lips. _"Not as much as I do."_

Connor had been the only sober one at the holiday party, save for Gemma's kids and a few distant, high schooler cousins. 

At that point in time, the whole "addict" act had been dropped, but with the way Connor had turned to alcohol for relief after Wes's death (and his own kidnapping), both he and Oliver had decided it would be best for him to lay off it for a while.

Long after they'd tumbled into Connor's old twin bed together, their legs tangled together and Oliver's head on Connor's chest, much too close and yet not close enough, never close enough, with the house quiet and the room dark, Oliver shifted up to be able to look at the other man, who grumbled quietly at the loss of heat on his chest.

 _"You're really great with those kids,"_ Oliver noted once he could look Connor in the eyes, maybe a little less sober than he'd seemed while they had brushed their teeth side-by-side not ten minutes ago (he had barely swayed in his spot, creating an aura of sobriety that now turned out to be far from the truth).

Connor just shrugged, unsure of how to respond. They never talked about the future. Marriage, kids, growing old . . . they simply put it off, leaving it for their future selves to deal with and sort out.

But now, Oliver, after just a little too much eggnog, seemed unable to talk about anything else.

 _"I'd like to have kids someday,"_ he hummed to himself, smiling at the thought of mini Connors and tiny Olivers running around. _"Of course, we'd need a bigger place . . . "_ Oliver paused, trying to think of where they might live. _"What do you think?"_ He asked after a beat. _"Do you want any kids? You'd make a great dad."_

Connor smiled at him, pressed a kiss to his forehead. _"Whatever you want, Ollie. As long as you're happy, I'm happy."_

Oliver couldn't help his quiet, broken sob as he thought back on those words. Because he'd _been_ happy, happier than he'd ever thought possible.

And he thought Connor had been, too.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

Oliver takes a slow, shaky breath, wiping at his cheeks with his sleeve before turning to the next page.

This one is simple, too - the words _I would never let you go_ are scrawled across the page in familiar, swooping letters, and a tiny packet of advil sits glued to the page.

The memory is a short one, but Oliver loves it all the same.

Oliver had been nearly asleep on the couch, a pounding headache making him too dizzy to make his way to the bedroom.

When Connor had come home from work that evening, though, he'd decided sleeping on the couch was completely unacceptable ( _"It could screw with your back!"_ ).

So, without thought, he'd scooped Oliver up into his arms, bridal-style. He'd groaned, tucking his face into Connor's shoulder and clutching tightly at his shirt.

 _"If you drop me,"_ he'd grumbled, his voice a low warning, _"there will be hell to pay."_

Connor had laughed loudly. _"Don't you worry, Ollie,"_ he'd grinned down at him, light and teasing and smiling brightly. _"I would never let you go."_

 _"Sap,"_ Oliver grumbled, curling closer to his chest. He was smiling, though.

Of course, it was only seconds after that that Connor smacked Oliver's head loudly against the doorway into their bedroom, causing a low hiss of pain from Oliver and a barely stifled laugh from Connor.

Thinking back on the sheepish expression of Connor's pulls a wet laugh from Oliver. He'd felt so bad about it, he'd apologized for days afterward, though he'd have to hold back a laugh each time.

The next page holds a greasy receipt, folded to curl around the words written in the middle: _Our first "date."_

The day Connor had showed up to apartment 303 with a bag of takeout and a sorry smile, Oliver recalls fondly. It wasn't much of a gesture - and they barely ate anything, anyway - but the fact that he'd saved the receipt warmed Oliver's heart.

The page after that shows a selfie Connor had snapped of the two of them, lying side-by-side in the bed of an old pickup truck. Tiny stars surrounded the photo and even a crescent-shaped moon was drawn in the page's top corner.

The two had gone down to visit Oliver's parents for the weekend. The evening before they'd left to return home, Connor, ever the city kid, had been sitting by the window and admiring the view as the sun sunk below the horizon. _"It gets so dark out here,"_ he'd murmured as Oliver came up behind him to rest his chin on Connor's shoulder. _"I bet you can see millions of stars at night."_

 _"You can see billions,"_ Oliver had corrected with a grin. And, really, that was all it took.

Within the next half hour, Oliver had convinced his father to lend them his truck and filled the bed with an old comforter and a few throw pillows.

By the time Connor could think to ask where the hell Oliver was taking them, he'd already parked in the middle of absolutely nowhere.

 _"Oh, my God,"_ Connor had groaned, looking over at the other man. _"We are so gonna get murdered out here."_

Oliver laughed, pushing open his door and stepping into the grass below. _"It's not like we wouldn't see them coming."_

And it was true - there was no one, nothing, around for miles. The road they were on was barely more than a dirt path through a field.

Connor grumbled to himself, annoyed, as he followed him out of the car and into the bed of the truck. Oliver just grinned, tugging Connor up to settle against the pillows beside him.

 _"So?"_ He whispered after a moment, into the silence that had quickly fallen. _"What do you think?"_

 _"It's incredible, Ollie,"_ Connor breathed, unable to tear his eyes from the sky.

They sat in a companionable silence for a while, listening to the chirps of the surrounding crickets as they studied the sky above for constellations.

But after a while, Connor had to break it. _"It was nice of your dad to let us borrow his car,"_ he said quietly.

Oliver looked over at him, unsure of how to respond. He knew about Connor's issues with his own father, of course, but he didn't know any of the details.

He knew about how Mr. Walsh had been a mean old drunk, he knew Connor had been sent off to boarding school partway through high school, when his older sister was off at college. He knew the man was out of the picture now, and that not a single member of their large family dared to mention his name.

And Oliver wasn't stupid. It wasn't difficult for him to guess that the tiny circular burns littering Connor's upper arms, where they'd be hidden by a shirtsleeve, had been branded into the skin with a cigarette.

It wasn't difficult to guess where the scars across his ribs came from, or the mark just below his left eye.

He understood why Connor would shrink back if Oliver were to raise his voice during a fight (after their first real argument had ended in a panic attack almost as bad as the one Connor had had on the night of the bonfire, Oliver promised himself to refrain from shouting at the other man).

So, of course he knew, but that didn't mean he had any clue of what to say to that.

 _"Con,"_ he finally decided on, linking their fingers together and inching closer, his voice barely more than a whisper.

He didn't have to voice the rest of his thoughts for Connor to understand. He could see it in his eyes, could feel it in the small squeeze Oliver gave his hand, could hear it in the gentle way he murmured his name.

_What's mine is yours. And that means family, too._

Connor nodded, forced a small smile.

They laid there for a long time, simply looking at each other. Memorizing the way their eyes sparkled in the starlight.

Eventually, Oliver shifted so that his head laid on Connor's stomach as he looked up at the sky, sparkling with billions of diamonds.

 _"You see that one?"_ He asked, pointing up at a certain cluster of stars. Connor nodded quietly, his fingers making their way into Oliver's hair. _"That's Hercules, the strongman."_

 _"Oh?"_ Was all he said in response, his voice smaller than usual, though Oliver saw it for what it was: a grateful leap at the chance of an escape from their earlier conversation.

 _"Mm-hmm,"_ he affirmed. _"And that one there, shaped like a big 'u'?"_ He moved his hand to point at the new constellation. _"That's Corona Borealis, the Northern Crown."_

Oliver went on like that for quite a while, pointing out every constellation he could identify while Connor quietly ran his hands through Oliver's hair, playing with it while he spoke slowly. 

It had been maybe an hour of his explaining constellation after constellation, sometimes even with the group of stars' mythological background, when he glanced over to see that Connor was fast asleep, his fingers still tightly wound through Oliver's locks.

He couldn't help but to smile at the sight of his boyfriend, his face peaceful and calm for the first time in a long time. 

Without worry.

It would have been simply cruel to wake him, would it not?

So, instead, Oliver just pulled the blanket tighter around them and closed his eyes, drifting off lying tangled with the love of his life under the whizzing of shooting stars and the bright summer moonlight.

And if the next day he drove home with a stiff back and a crick in his neck, well, he didn't mind. He couldn't mind when his pillow had been Connor.

Oliver flips to the next page with shaky hands, not even bothering to attempt to keep in the tears at this point.

This one is decorated with little red tickets that had been bought from a tiny booth smelling strongly of popcorn and candy apples. There are pictures, too, pictures of Connor mid-laugh, standing in front of a brightly decorated tent full of bottles and rings and huge stuffed animals. Pictures of Oliver, his smile so wide it looks as if his face is about to split in two, holding up a little bag carrying a bright orange fish.

He'd loved that fish, the one Connor had won for him (granted, he probably could've won his own, but he much preferred watching his boyfriend bite his lip as he concentrated before lightly tossing each ping-pong ball toward the tiny fishbowls).

Oliver had bought a big, circular bowl for the prize fish, complete with colorful rocks on the bottom, lots of fake plants, and a small, bubbly treasure chest for decoration.

He'd named it Sushi, much to Connor's amusement, and fed it every morning and every night.

He'd been a doting fish parent, even if she hadn't survived long.

When, unsurprisingly, he'd woken up to find Sushi floating belly-up in her bowl not even a month after they'd taken her home, he'd dragged Connor into the bathroom with him to give her a proper burial at sea - or the closest they could get to it in the middle of Philadelphia, anyway.

Connor had wrapped his arms around Oliver from behind, holding him close and resting his chin on his shoulder as they watched her circle slowly down the drain.

 _"You okay?"_ He'd murmured once it was over, pressing his lips softly to Oliver's neck.

Oliver let out a laugh that was more miserable than amused. _"Yeah, I'm fine,"_ he promised. It wasn't even that long until it was true - a day or two at most.

The sudden, harsh ringing of his phone across the room yanks Oliver from the memory.

He stumbles to his feet, dropping the book on the bed before hurrying into the kitchen, snatching his ringing phone off the countertop. He doesn't have to look at the phone to know who's calling.

"What?" He sighs, utterly exhausted.

"I just wanted to make sure you were okay," Michaela says gently. It's the only tone she's been using around him lately. "You've been ignoring my texts."

It doesn't suit her. Michaela was made for harsh words, sharp wit and scathing remarks. Her kindness is all wrong.

"I'm fine," he lies easily.

She lets out a breath, exasperated. "Ollie, you don't have to - "

"Don't," he cuts her off, suddenly, unexplainably angry. "You don't get to call me that."

There's a pause, a lapse in conversation as she searches for the right words. As usual, there are none. Not for a thing like this.

Not on December 14th.

"I'm sorry," she finally says, quiet and sincere. There's another beat of silence before she adds, "But he was my friend, too."

"He was a little more than a friend to me, Michaela," he hisses.

"You know I didn't mean - "

He cuts her off again, this time sounding more tired than angry. "Yeah. I know."

"I'm here if you need me," she reminds him after a moment, her voice just as exhausted as his, all of a sudden.

Oliver is unsure of how to end the conversation, so he just hangs up after a beat. He knows Michaela won't mind. And even if she did, well.

He can't bring himself to care.

Instead of bothering to try, he makes his way back to the bedroom and curls up on the bed, a pillow clutched tightly to his chest. It doesn't do much to dull the ache deep inside of him, no matter how hard he squeezes.

Eventually, long after he's given up on trying to hug the pain away, he reaches for the familiar red leather book still lying at the foot of the bed and pulls it close.

If he can't get rid of the pain, he may as well embrace it, right?

He finds the right page easily, the next one in line.

This one is Oliver's favorite, the one he'd spent the most time poring over, scouring it for every last detail when he'd first seen it.

There's a little heart drawn in the top corner, right next to the carefully scrawled words that send a shooting pain straight through Oliver's heart.

 _Con & Ollie Forever_.

The words are innocent, naïve. 

A lie.

Oliver pushes down the ache and looks to the pictures.

Pictures of Connor's youngest niece in a puffy pink dress, of a smiling group of best friends, of two men standing together on an altar.

Of their first kiss as a married couple.

A few pressed petals are glued onto the paper, surrounding the pictures of the best day of Oliver's life.

His favorite photograph, though, his favorite by far, is the one smack-dab in the middle of it all.

Their wedding photographer had cornered them, talking privately to each other about something he couldn't recall.

 _"Smile!"_ She'd instructed, her camera clicking away.

And Oliver had done just that. His smile is huge, the biggest it's ever been. The happiest he'd ever been was that whole night, after all, trumping even the time he'd been approached in a bar by a handsome stranger who was looking for more than he'd originally let on.

Caught on camera, frozen in time, Oliver's grin is wide, every tooth in his mouth making an appearance as he showed how it felt to be marrying the love of his life.

Connor, meanwhile, had completely ignored the photographer's request. He isn't even looking at her.

His eyes are on his husband, filled with so much love and emotion and pure _joy_ it seems impossible to think that their lives together may have been anything less than perfect.

Of course, there was a handful of them at the wedding that beautiful spring day that knew the truth, that the pair had certainly had their issues.

But did any of it really matter? How important could the past really be when the here and now was so wonderful?

A lot more important than they'd all imagined, apparently.

The photographs on the next page are from the same night, but they couldn't be more different. These ones are personal, for no one's eyes but each other's.

After the reception had ended, they'd both been absolutely starving. A night of wandering around, trying to speak to everyone, could leave a person without much time to eat.

And so, when they'd hopped into the limo that was supposed to take them to their hotel, smiling and laughing and just a little bit drunk (and much too handsy, of course, but what else was knew?), they'd taken a slight detour.

To McDonald's.

They'd looked ridiculous, standing in line at the greasy fast food joint in their matching tuxes at two in the morning. The woman behind the counter, though, hadn't even so much as raised an eyebrow, just took their orders with a voice that made it clear how little she wanted to be there.

Within minutes, the pair had a table full of fries and burgers and nuggets and slices of pie and whatever else was available.

Connor had snapped a photo of Oliver, a cheeseburger midway to his mouth, his eyes fond but exasperated.

 _"What are you doing?"_ He'd groaned, though he was smiling. _"Don't you think we have enough pictures of tonight?"_

Connor shook his head, grinning as he stuffed a fry into his mouth. _"I want to remember this moment forever."_ His voice was teasing and light, but Oliver knew he wasn't kidding in the slightest.

He wanted to remember it, too. 

It was the best night of his life, after all, only just beating out the night he'd managed to hook up with the hottest banker ever - though it soon turned out he wasn't a banker at all.

 _"Then you won't mind one of your own."_ He pulled out his own phone, laughing as he snapped a photo of the now-posing Connor.

His smile was ridiculously huge, more for show than for real. He had fries sticking out of his mouth, going every which way, and a smear of ketchup on his nose. Oliver had no idea how or even when it had gotten there.

And though the wide grin may not have been the realest, most genuine grin, like Oliver's was, the pure joy in his eyes, the way they shined with light and love and the most intense form of happiness there is - that couldn't be faked.

The next page's pictures are equally food-centric.

There's a selfie, their faces smushed close together, Connor's eyes wide with excitement while Oliver's were squeezed closed in a laugh. Another picture captures Oliver, taken from Connor's spot right next to him on a hotel couch, a bowl of popcorn on his lap and a flushed smile on his face.

 _"Con!"_ He'd protested, laughing as his husband snapped photo after photo. _"Con, stop!"_

Michaela was in the background of that one, smiling fondly over at the two idiots so obviously in love.

Another picture features the couple together, Oliver leaning back against Connor's chest, Connor's arms wrapped tightly around the other man's middle as he smiled brightly, their faces close together.

Michaela had taken that one, Oliver remembers.

The last picture on the page is of the four of them - Connor, Oliver, Michaela, Asher.

They'd all been snapped while on a little weekend getaway the friends had gone on together, to some bed & breakfast a few towns over.

Connor and Oliver had claimed one couch, while Michaela and Asher took the other. In the picture, though, they're all squeezed onto one - Oliver can't remember which. They're smiling, arms wrapped tight around each other.

They'd set up Connor's phone against the tv for the picture, he recalls. Connor had been the one to suggest it.

It was really only that one night of the trip that Oliver remembers well. The rest is a blur of the two walking together, holding hands as they strolled down cobblestone streets stuffed to the brim with little shops.

But that night, they'd all been together. They'd just arrived, and Connor and Oliver's room wasn't ready yet, for whatever reason, so they resorted to sleeping on the couch in Michaela and Asher's suite.

Flipping through the small tv's channels while squeezed onto their respective couches, the couples had been chatting idly about something insignificant when it landed on a very familiar-looking title sequence.

Oliver leaned over and practically snatched the remote from Michaela's hand.

 _"We're watching this,"_ he'd explained to her indignant look, her eyebrow raised. _"It's nonnegotiable."_ He shrugged like there was really nothing he could do about it.

Connor was staring at him. _"Seriously, Ollie? Harry Potter?"_

_"What, like you've never seen it?"_

There's a moment of silence as Oliver registers what Connor's look means. His jaw drops open. _"You can't be married to me and have never seen Harry Potter."_

Connor couldn't help but laugh at that. _"Oh, I can't?"_

Oliver shook his head, gravely serious (though his eyes sparkled). He leaned back against the other man, then, tangling their legs together under the blanket.

The four of them quickly fell silent as they watched an old man set a baby on the doorstep of his only family.

Surprisingly, Connor actually paid attention to most of the movie, something he couldn't do even with the movies he picked himself. It was about halfway through when he gave up trying to watch, though, turning to Oliver and grumbling something about his being bored.

Oliver, far past used to his husband's short attention span, simply swatted him away, not even bothering with a look in his direction.

But a minute later, Connor's lips were on his neck, needy hands tugging Oliver closer. It wasn't long before he relented, turning quietly to the man who quickly wrapped a leg around his waist, shifting so he was sitting directly on Oliver's lap as he tugged at his hair.

It wasn't long before Connor was tugging off his shirt, grinning widely, that familiar sparkle in his eye turning mischievous.

It had barely hit the floor, though, when a pillow smacked him in the side of the head.

 _"Connor!"_ Michaela scolded, her voice barely less than an all-out shriek. _"Are you serious? We are sitting right here!"_

Asher was sitting right there next to her, his arm loosely around her waist. And, frankly, he looked horrified. His eyes were wide as saucers, and his expression was that of a child who's walked in on his parents.

 _"You guys know I'm all for you two, but do you really have to go at it when we're, like, three feet away?"_ He questioned, looking more weirded out than Connor had ever seen him.

Looking over at that, Connor couldn't help but burst into laughter, dropping his head to Oliver's shoulder as his own shook with laughter. Oliver joined in seconds later, chuckling quietly despite the furious blush in his cheeks.

 _"I'm sorry,"_ he gasped, barely containing his laughter. _"I totally forgot you guys were here."_

Michaela crossed her arms, her eyes shooting daggers at the pair. _"Am I going to have to separate you two?"_

His smile turning almost sheepish, Connor slid off Oliver's lap to curl up against his side. _"We'll be good, I promise,"_ he swore, his eerily reminiscent of a child's.

Oliver nodded quickly, his cheeks still brightly flushed with embarrassment. _"Sorry, Michaela,"_ he grinned.

Neither of them sounded very apologetic.

 _"Put your clothing back on and keep your hands where I can see them, or I swear to God, you'll both be sleeping in the hallway tonight,"_ she instructed.

Connor pouted at her but snatched his shirt off the floor nonetheless, yanking it back over his head. _"Party pooper,"_ he grumbled under his breath as he settled in to finish the movie, forcing a laugh to bubble up Oliver's throat, try as he might to keep it in.

He gave Michaela an apologetic grin as she whipped her head to look over at them again, suspicious.

The rest of the movie played without incident, with Connor turning out to actually enjoy it, even if he tried to deny it.

 _"I knew you'd like it,"_ Oliver grinned when the credits finished rolling and the tv had been clicked off.

 _"I didn't,"_ Connor grumbled, though the lie was apparent in the small grin lighting up his face. _"I just like you."_

Asher _awwed_ loudly from across the room as he stood, tugging Michaela up with him.

Oliver laughed, tucking his face into Connor's neck as the other two crossed the room.

Before the door closed behind them, though, Michaela stuck her head out to give them one final glare. _"I'm not done out here, and don't you dare try any funny business until I am. You can set up the bed, but that is it. I don't even trust you two crazy sex addicts to lie in it together,"_ she informed them, her tone that of a military commander's before she closed the door tightly behind her.

When she stepped out of hers and Asher's room nearly twenty minutes later, clad in a pair of his sweatpants and one of his old Middleton shirts, she couldn't help but smile at the two idiots lying together on the sofa bed, despite their blatant disregard of her one request.

The couple was lying back against the pillows, hands laced tightly together and held up in the air as Connor lightly traced over Oliver's slender fingers.

 _"You could not be more wrong,"_ Oliver was whispering, his voice amused.

Connor shook his head. _"There's no way I'm in the same house as that blond weirdo. If anything, I'm totally Gryffindor,"_ he argued.

 _"Don't fight me on this, Con. I've had it figured out for years, now. You're an absolute Slytherin,"_ he insisted.

 _"If I'm a Slytherin, then you're a Hufflepuff!"_ Connor tried, prompting a laugh from Oliver. _"What's so funny?"_

 _"I_ am _a Hufflepuff, you idiot."_

_"Wait, what? I thought Hufflepuff was the loser house."_

_"Hey!"_ Oliver exclaimed, feigning offense with a hand over his heart. _"It is not!"_

Connor nodded at him, gravely serious. _"Totally is, you big ol' nerd."_

 _"Hufflepuffs are loyal and fair,"_ Oliver reminded him, unable to hide his smile. _"That doesn't make them losers. Gryffindors are daring and brave, Ravenclaws are wise, and Slytherins are ambitious and cunning."_

His eyes lit up, and he shifted excitedly to face Oliver on the bed, entwined fingers long forgotten. _"Daring and brave, that's me!"_

Oliver laughed quietly. _"You're wrong,"_ was all he said.

 _"What, you don't think I'm brave?"_ Connor pouted at his husband.

 _"Of course you are,"_ he was quick to reassure, his voice placating but still holding a tinge of amusement. _"You, Connor Walsh, are very brave. I just think you're more determined to get what you want than you are courageous."_

_"Oh, yeah?"_

Oliver nodded, reaching for his phone on the nearby coffee table. He typed something in, quick as lighting. _"Listen to this:_ Slytherins are cunning folk who'll use any means to achieve their ends," he read. _"You remember how we met, don't you, Mr. I-use-sex-to-get-what-I-want?"_ When he glanced up from his phone screen a moment later to glance at his husband with an amused smile, Connor was grinning sheepishly.

 _"Fine,"_ he admitted as he looked over at Oliver. _"Maybe I do belong with blondie."_

Even now, even today, Oliver can't help but chuckle a bit at the memory. That was a good night.

A little embarrassing, maybe, but good all the same.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, Oliver turns the page.

This one is colorful, bright, happy. They all are, of course, every last page, but the photos glued down here contain enough hope for the future, he can almost feel it coursing from the page and into his fingertips when he touches them lightly to the pictures.

 _Ringing in the New Year Together,_ it reads. Their first New Years' as husbands.

They'd spent it at a nice restaurant in New York, one where after dinner they could stroll hand-in-hand down the streets that weren't too crowded with tourists anxious to see the ball drop, yet later on they'd still be able to see the popping fireworks from where they sat, bundled up close together on a bench in the middle of snowy Central Park.

There's a single picture of the sky, exploding with a burst of colorful light. It's the only one of the actual fireworks, of what they'd traveled to see.

Instead, it's surrounded by photos of them at dinner, of their ringed hands wrapped around steaming cups of coffee, of their New Years' kiss. There's even one of Oliver asleep in the car, exhausted as they made the trip back home.

On a good day, the trip was an hour and forty-five minutes.

That holiday, they'd learned to just find a hotel next time - the New Years' traffic, even in the oh-so-early morning, could add a good three or more hours to the drive.

The page after that pulls a sob from Oliver roughly. He'd known it was coming, of course, but seeing it still sends a shock of hurt through his body.

See, the book had been given to him by Connor, for their third anniversary.

And back when he'd made the book, their plans had been a little different.

On the page is a copy of the best piece of mail they'd ever received: an approved adoption request. There's even a little ultrasound, and a sticker of a baby footprint, tiny and pink.

On their anniversary, the woman they'd been adopting from had been almost 25 weeks along.

Not even a month later, they'd gotten another piece of mail from the agency, this one not nearly as exciting. More along the lines of _utterly heartbreaking_ , actually.

Because it was a closed adoption, they hadn't been given any details. It was virtually just: _we're sorry Mr. Walsh and Mr. Hampton, but your child was stillborn_.

The fact that they hadn't been able to look into it, even to try and speak with the birth mother, made it that much worse. Explaining to friends and family why their excitement over the coming child had faded was extremely difficult, much more than expected because of the lack of details.

All they knew was that they'd lost their child, their little girl, and there was no getting her back.

 _You can apply again to adopt as soon as you'd like,_ the letter had told them. An adoption form had been attached.

It was a unanimous decision that they wouldn't. The entire process the first time around had been taxing enough, but the loss was simply devastating.

They couldn't spend so much time and money again to risk yet another heart-shattering loss.

The form was put into the trash, while the letter was left on the countertop for weeks. Neither Connor nor Oliver knew what to do with it.

Eventually, it disappeared. Oliver suspected Connor had seen the way he'd avoid entering the kitchen whenever possible, just to avoid the letter.

Even now, two years later, the sight of their accepted request sends a pang of hurt through his chest.

He tears his gaze from the page, clutching a pillow to his chest as pushing the book away for a moment. Staring at it for too long, reading over the letter, just hurt too much.

He tries not to imagine what they could've had, could've been.

But despite his best efforts to keep the thoughts at bay, his head fills with bright and cheery pictures: The two of them, taking their baby girl home from the hospital. Oliver waking in the middle of the night to feed her. Connor singing, trying to soothe her back to sleep. Pushing a stroller down a sidewalk. Her first birthday party. A few years down the road, their first house, with more room for more babies, maybe even a dog or two. Her first day at preschool - she'd clutch to Oliver's pant leg, not wanting to go in. At the sight of her tears, he'd consider pushing off school for another year, hoping to keep her as his baby girl forever. 

Instead, she'd just keep growing. 

Sleepovers and pizza parties and summer vacations and sweet sixteens, and all of a sudden she's graduating and it's Connor's turn to cry, holding tight to Oliver's hand.

They'd grow old together, maybe move out to Florida or California, soak up as much sun as they could while their wrinkles deepened and their hair grayed (or even fell out).

But they'll never have that now, not any of it.

He flips the page quickly, shaking the images from his mind.

Maybe another day, he'd read the congratulatory letter again. But not today.

There was enough pain for him to deal with on December 14th.

The next page is a little easier. Not that any of the pages were _easy_ to look at, so to speak, but it's not as awful as the adoption papers.

This one is littered with snapshots of Oliver, standing in front of different pieces of artwork. He's laughing in most, smiling fondly at his idiot husband in the others, and blushing (at least a little bit) in every last picture.

Another trip to New York, this one for a weekend, had seen them visiting the MoMA.

Oliver had been entranced, capturing pictures on his phone of any piece he liked - which ended up being most all of them.

Within the first half hour of their visit, though, Connor had given up on trying to find the hidden meanings in different brushstrokes, his short attention span long since depleted. 

Instead, he was studying Oliver. 

He liked to watch as the man's brows scrunched up, the way he leaned in close to a painting to be able to see every last detail. He liked the different expressions that would cross his face with each new piece, and he tried to figure out what each one meant.

Did _Starry Night_ remind him of their sleepover in a truck bed, years earlier, the way it reminded Connor? Did he like the strange style of Salvador Dali's _The Persistence of Memory,_ or did he find it just as weird as he did?

He couldn't be sure. 

But after nearly an hour of this, of Connor looking at his husband instead of the paintings and sculptures, Oliver turned to him, looking almost irritated (the smile in his eyes gave away that he wasn't actually angry).

 _"Would you stop staring at me and just admire the artwork like a normal person?"_ He sighed, exasperated.

 _"I am admiring it,"_ he teased, grinning as he stepped forward to wrap his arms tightly around Oliver's waist.

The man rolled his eyes, pushing his husband off with an amused smile. _"You are so cheesy,"_ he laughed.

_"You know you love it."_

Oliver laughed again. _"Just quit staring at me, you big loser."_

But, of course, he didn't. 

He couldn't! 

Not when Oliver looked so good under the museum's bright lights. He practically had no choice but to start taking pictures of the man.

Oliver in front of a wall of soup cans. Oliver in staring down a jumbled-up woman, depicted by Picasso himself. Oliver studying a circle of nude dancers. Oliver smiling fondly at a swirling blue and gold sky.

Oliver, laughing.

He isn't laughing now, not even close. Despite his and Connor's wide smiles in each of the pictures, each page only sends a stronger wave of crushing pain through his body. It's making him want to curl into himself and stay like that for weeks.

He doesn't.

Instead, he flips the page again. This time, there's a very familiar drawing spreading across the page.

 _I still think you should color it permanently,_ read the words scribbled below the image.

It's a mess of triangles, geometric and stiff, swirling and wild all at once. It's identical to that tattoo on Connor's right shoulder.

He'd gotten it back in boarding school, he'd told Oliver once, as the latter gently traced the thin lines from where he laid beside him in bed. He'd always meant to get it filled in, he said, but he'd never had the time or the money for it.

In seconds, Oliver had jumped up from the bed, coming back a minute later wielding a box of markers.

Connor had laughed, tried to roll away or push Oliver off, but he was dead-set.

He filled in each of the shapes, creating a galaxy of blues and pinks and purples.

Surprisingly, Connor had absolutely loved it, and it soon became a part of normal life for the pair. The color would always fade after a few days, and Oliver would jump right back in with a colorful pen as Connor sat shirtless in front of him, usually watching a movie or working on a case.

It was soothing, he'd later explain, feeling Oliver absentmindedly color away at his skin.

He created jungles of greens and reds, oceans of blues and grays, fireworks of rainbow.

Connor claimed to love each one more than the last, begging Oliver to take a picture so he could get it tattooed permanently.

He always refused. _"I can't color you in anymore if it's permanent,"_ he'd explain to Connor's disappointed look, shrugging his shoulders. _"Sorry, but it's just too fun."_

But as much as Connor always complained, one of his favorite parts of his week was when he planted himself in front of his husband, shirt off and tattoo out, bright markers at the ready.

As much as he always teased and begged and pleaded, Connor knew he would never get that tattoo filled in, not permanently.

And Oliver knew it, too.

The next pages go quickly, each one sending Oliver back to a time much better than now, even if just for a moment.

The first movie they'd seen together, a horror film. Oliver had hidden his face in Connor's shoulder, while Connor kept a death-grip on his hand throughout the entire thing.

A concert they'd attended, for a band Oliver can't remember much of anymore.

Their weeklong honeymoon in Martha's Vineyard.

Christmas at the Walsh's.

Hanukah at the Hampton's.

Even a page of their wedding vows, handwritten and heartfelt.

A photograph taken by someone else (most likely Michaela), of the two curled together, fast asleep, at the strangest slumber party of Oliver's life, hosted by none other than Asher Millstone.

More selfies, of the couple rocking out to songs in the car or sharing an ice cream cone or exploring Philadelphia.

Another photograph à la Michaela, this one of Oliver working hard on a laptop on Annalise's couch, an exhausted and unconscious Connor's head lying in his lap and his fingers tangled in the man's too-long hair while he typed one-handed.

Oliver, grinning over a steaming mug of coffee at Connor.

Connor, sticking his tongue out at something Oliver said, frozen in time.

Picture after picture after picture.

Six years worth of memories.

Eventually, Oliver is on the second to last page, crying too hard to see. Partly because he knows what's coming, partly because of the words scrawled carefully under the attached picture, partly because it had all been a _lie_.

Every picture had a smile or a laugh or an inside joke. Not one of them showed what had really been going on, behind the scenes.

Not one showed how they'd been hurting.

Except, of course, the last page. That was the worst of it all.

But that page hadn't been in there when he'd been given the book. It had found its way in after a certain screaming match between a dark-haired beauty and a police officer.

But he wasn't there yet, Oliver reminded himself. He hadn't yet reached that page.

He wipes roughly at his cheeks with the sleeve of his sweater, studying the tear-blurred page below him.

The picture was one taken at their wedding, of their first dance together.

They were looking at each other, the only two people in the room - the only two that mattered, anyway.

 _"How did I get so lucky?"_ Connor had whispered, tugging his new husband close to his chest as they swayed. _"How did I end up with a guy like you?"_

The memory comes easily, like their wedding had been only yesterday, instead of five years ago.

It comes easily, and Oliver tucks his face into his pillow and sobs.

He cries for what they were, and what they weren't. What they had the potential to become, and what they could never be.

Most of all, though, he cries for Connor.

For his beloved husband, even after all this time.

It has to be at least a good half hour before Oliver can see clearly again, before his eyes stop stinging with big, salty tears filled with loss and heartbreak.

He lightly traces the words at the bottom of the page, commits them to memory (though they're already there, they have been since the day Connor gave him the book back in 2020).

_Happy third anniversary, Ollie. I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you, to fill the rest of this book with new memories._

_I love you._

And it was true.

Even after everything, Oliver never doubted that Connor loved him, not even for a second.

That's the thought that gives him the strength to slowly turn the page - the thought that Connor loves him, that he'll never stop loving him. Just like he loves Connor.

Always and forever.

 

*****

 

The letter starts off innocently enough. 

The first time Oliver read it, he'd been more confused as to what it was than worried. Maybe if he had been, if he'd read it faster, things today would be different.

But that's not what happened. He read it slowly, unconcerned.

And he ruined everything.

It begins with a date: _December 14th, 2021_. Two years ago today. One year and a few short months after their fourth wedding anniversary.

_Dear Ollie,_

_Okay. So._

_I thought had this all planned out in my head, but when I sat down to actually write it, I realized I had no clue what I was doing. You'd think I'd have at least a little bit of an idea - this isn't exactly something out of the blue. I've thought about it for a long, long time, and I've been actually planning it as a sure thing for about a month, now. But, still, I'm at a total loss._

_There are the normal things to say, of course, the right things: I love you, I'm sorry, all of that. But you already know it all. At least I hope you do. I say it as much as I can, especially now. Now that I know what's coming. Because if there's one thing I need to leave you knowing, it's that you are loved. My God, I love you so fucking much, Ollie. You're everything to me, you really are. I need you to remember that, after all of this is over. You're the only one I've ever loved, the only one I ever wanted to._

_See, that's why I'm doing this, why I have to. For you, Ollie._

_Because you deserve the world, and I can't give you any of it. You deserve so much more than me. I'm doing it because I love you, Oliver. Just like I always have, just like I always will. From the second I saw you in that bar, I knew it - I was fucked._

_I don't want you misinterpreting this, though. I am not in any way telling you this is your fault. It's all on me, okay? You need to remember that. You didn't do a thing wrong. You tried your hardest to fix me, to love me, and it wasn't your fault that it just wasn't enough. I'm broken, beyond repair. And there's only one way to fix it._

_That's why today, after you leave for work (because I'm writing this in the early, early morning, too scared to sleep, too scared to do anything but sit next to you on our bed and write and whisper how much I love you), I'm going to do it._

_I'm going to take the whole bottle of Xanax (that's why I've been so jumpy lately, I know you were wondering - I've been saving the pills) and I'm going to down a bottle of Jack and then I'm gonna fall asleep. Easy peasy._

_Don't you worry about me, Ollie, I looked it up - it won't hurt too much. I'll be okay._

_I want you to remember me as I was, back when we were happy together. Really happy, before we lost our little girl and I lost my job and it all just went to shit. I know that's a lot to ask of you, but I haven't been myself this past year. I've been distant and cold and jittery, depressed more than you can imagine. So, please, forget this version of me, the one who doesn't believe in anything anymore. I want you to remember the good times, back when I was normal and we were gonna be together forever._

_We won't, now, that much is obvious. And I'm sorry - if there's one thing I'm sorry for, it's that. Leaving you. I made a vow that I'd stick with you for all eternity, but I can't do it anymore. I'm not strong enough, Ollie. So I'm sorry for leaving you and I'm sorry for breaking my promise and I'm sorry for being too weak and I'm sorry for not being the man you deserve._

_I'm not sorry for loving you, though._

_I should be - if I'd never loved you, if I'd dropped you like I dropped all those other guys, you wouldn't be hurting right now, wouldn't be crying._

_Because I know you, Ollie, I know you're crying. Don't cry for me, love. Don't feel sorry for me. I'm gonna be much happier when I'm gone._

_And maybe we can be together again, someday, but for now, I need you to move on. Promise me that, Oliver - that you'll move on. I need you to be happy, if only because I couldn't._

_There are things I'll miss, of course, things I used to love._

_I loved the sea, and the way the waves would crash against the shore._

_I loved the rain, how it sounded as it whipped against our windows, how we would splash around in it when it was warm._

_I loved my friends, despite how they could hate me on even the best days._

_I loved dreaming, and what it felt like to dream curled up next to you._

_I loved summer nights and skies full of stars._

_I loved late-night junk food and promises of eternal happiness._

_More than anything, though, I loved you. How you laughed at my stupid jokes, how you smiled every time you saw me, how you would take my hand when I couldn't focus, how there were fireworks each time we kissed, even after all this time._

_There was never a dull moment with you, Oliver Hampton. And for that, I thank you._

_I thank you, and I'm sorry._

_Goodbye, Ollie. I will always, always love you._

_Connor_

**Author's Note:**

> Yes I know Connor wasn't wearing a tie when they first hooked up, but I wasn't gonna put like a suit jacket or a shoe in the box, so I'm sorry but oh well. Also, I have no one editing for me & I'm awful at checking over my own work (and at figuring out dates and how they go together), so please lmk if you see an issue!!
> 
> If you see something you like (or hate!) please drop a comment or a kudos. I live & thrive on those.
> 
> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed!!! :)


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